CHAPTER I.

“I have got
A seat to sit at ease here, in mine inn,
To see the comedy; and laugh and chuck
At the variety and throng of humours,
And dispositions that come jostling in
And out.”
Ben Jonson
—The New Inn.

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The little town of Raymond, in the state of Mississippi,
was in the utmost commotion. Court-day
was at hand, and nothing was to be heard but the
hum of preparation for that most important of all
days in the history of a country village—that of
general muster alone excepted. Strange faces and
strange dresses began to show themselves in the
main street; lawyers were entering from all quarters—
“saddlebag” and “sulky” lawyers—men who
cumber themselves with no weight of law, unless it
can be contained in moderately-sized heads, or valise,
or saddle-bag, of equally moderate dimensions.
Prowling sheriff's officers began to show their hands
again, after a ten or twenty days' absence in the surrounding
country, where they had gone to the great
annoyance of simple farmers, who contract large
debts to the shop-keeper on the strength of crops yet
to be planted, which are thus wasted on changeable
silks for the spouse, and whistle-handled whips for
“Young Hopeful” the only son and heir to possession,
which, in no long time will be heard best of

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under the auctioneer's hammer. The population of
the village was increasing rapidly; and what with the
sharp militia colonel, in his new box coat, squab
white hat, trim collar and high-heeled boots, seeking
to find favour in the regiment against the next election
for supplying the brigadier's vacancy; the
swaggering planter to whom certain disquieting hints
of foreclosure have been given, which he can evade
no longer, and which he must settle as he may; the
slashing overseer, prime for cockfight or quarterrace,
and not unwilling to try his own prowess upon
his neighbour, should occasion serve and all other
sports fail; the pleading and impleaded, prosecutor
and prosecuted, witnesses and victims,—Raymond
never promised more than at present to swell beyond
all seasonable boundaries, and make a noise in
the little world round it. Court-day is a day to remember
in the West, either for the parts witnessed
or the parts taken in the various performances; and
whether the party be the loser of an eye or ear, or
has merely helped another to the loss of both, the
case is still pretty much the same; the event is not
usually forgotten. The inference was fair that there
would be a great deal of this sort of prime brutality
performed at the present time. Among the crowd
might be seen certain men who had already distinguished
themselves after this manner, and who strutted
and swaggered from pillar to post, as if conscious
that the eyes of many were upon them, either in scorn
or admiration. Notoriety is a sort of fame which
the vulgar mind essentially enjoys beyond any other;
and we are continually reminded, while in the crowd,
of the fellow in the play, who says he “loves to be
contemptible.” Some of these creatures had lost an
eye, some an ear, others had their faces scarred
with the strokes of knives; and a close inspection of
others might have shown certain tokens about their

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necks, which testified to bloody ground fights, in
which their gullets formed an acquaintance with the
enemy's teeth, not over-well calculated to make
them desire new terms of familiarity. Perhaps, in
most cases, these wretches had only been saved
from just punishment by the humane intervention of
the spectators—a humanity that is too often warmed
into volition, only when the proprietor grows sated
with the sport. At one moment the main street in
Raymond was absolutely choked by the press of
conflicting vehicles. Judge Bunkell's sulky hitched
wheels with the carriage of Col. Fishhawk, and
squire Dickens' bran new barouche, brought up from
Orleans only a week before, was “staved all to
flinders”—so said our landlady—“agin the corner
of Joe Richards' stable.” The 'squire himself narrowly
escaped the very last injury in the power of a
fourfooted beast to inflict, that is disposed to use his
hoofs heartily—and, bating an abrasion of the left
nostril, which diminished the size, if it did not, as
was the opinion of many, impair the beauty of the
member, Dickens had good reason to congratulate
himself at getting off with so little personal damage.
These, however, were not the only mishaps on this
occasion. There were other stories of broken heads,
maims and injuries, but whether they grew out of
the unavoidable concussion of a large crowd in a
small place, or from a great natural tendency to broken
heads on the part of the owners, it scarcely falls
within our present purpose to inquire. A jostle in a
roomy region like the west, is any thing but a jostle
in the streets of New York. There you may tilt
the wayfarer into the gutter, and the laugh is
against the loser, it being a sufficient apology for
taking such a liberty with your neighbour's person,
that “business is business, and must be attended to.”
Every man must take care of himself and learn to

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push with the rest, where all are in a hurry. But
he brooks the stab who jostles his neighbour where
there is no such excuse; and the stab is certain
where he presumes so far with his neighbour's wife,
or his wife's daughter, or his sister. There's no
pleading that the city rule is to “take the right hand”—
he will let you know that the proper rule is to give
way to the weak and feeble—to women, to age, to
infancy. This is the manly rule among the strong,
and a violation of it brings due punishment in the
west. Jostling there is a dangerous experiment, and
for this very reason, it is frequently practised by
those who love a row and fear no danger. It is one
of the thousand modes resorted to for compelling
the fight of fun—the conflict which the rowdy seeks
from the mere love of tumult, and in the excess of
overheated blood.

If there was a sensation among the “arrivals” at
Raymond, there was scarcely less among the residents.
The private houses were soon full of visiters,
and the public of guests. Major Mandrake's
tavern was crammed from top to bottom; and this
afflicting dispensation led to the strangest disruption
of anciently adjusted beds and bedsteads. Miss
Artemisia Mandrake, for example, was compelled
to yield her cushions, to a horse-drover from Tennessee,
and content herself with such “sleeps,” as she
could find in an old arm-chair, that stood in immemorial
dust in a sort of pigeon-roost garret. It
was to this necessity, we may be permitted to say
in this place, that she for ever after ascribed her
rheumatism, and a certain awry contraction of the
muscles of the neck, which, defeating her other
personal charms, was not inaptly assumed, by the
damsel herself, to have been the true cause of her
remaining, up to the time of this writing, an unappropriated
spinster. Major Mandrake has certainly

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had excellent reason to repent his cupidity. The
rival tavern of Captain Crumbaugh was in equally
fortunate condition with that of the Major. They
were both filled to overflowing by midday, and
after that you could get a bed in neither for love
nor money. And yet the folks continued to arrive;
folks of all conditions and from all quarters,
in gig and sulky, or on horseback; some riding
in pairs on the same donkey,—and not a few short-petticoated
damsels, led by curiosity, from the
neighbouring farms, and mounted in like manner,
on battered jades, whose mouths, ossified by repeated
jerks, now defied the strenuous efforts by which
the riders would have sent them forward with some
show of life and spirit, as they emerged from the
forests into the crowded thoroughfare.

“Well, there's a heap of folks still a-coming, and
where in the world they'll find a place to lie down
in to-night, is a'most past my reckoning. I'm sure
the major ha'n't got another bed left, high nor low;
and as for the captain, I heard him tell Joe Zeigler,
an hour ago, that all was full with him. Yet, do
look, how they are a-coming. Can't you look, Jack
Horsey, if it's only for a minute. You hav'n't got no
more nateral curiosity than—”

“Shut up, Bess, you've got enough for both of us.
What's it to me, and what's it to you, where the
folks sleep. Let them sleep where they can; there'll
be no want of beds where there's no want of money.
If they have that, the captain and the major will
take good care that they have every opportunity to
spend it. As for you, go you and see after the poultry;
court-time is a mighty bad season for chickens;
they die off very sudden, and the owner is not always
the wiser of the sort of death they die. Push,
Bess, and see if you can forget for awhile the business
of the two taverns.”

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The good wife was silent for a space, but this was
the only acknowledgment which she condescended
to yield her stubborn and incurious husband. She
did not leave her place at the window, but continued
to gaze with the satisfaction of a much younger person,
at the throng in the thoroughfare, as it received
additions momently from every new arrival. At
length the stir appeared to cease—the carriages to
disappear; horses vanished in the custody of bustling
ostlers, and their riders, making amends for the day's
abstinence, on a dry road, might be seen, in great
part, at the bar-room of the Major or the Captain,
washing away the dust from capacious throats by
occasional draughts of whisky or peach brandy.
The latter article seemed most in demand at the
house of Captain Crumbaugh. He had the art of
preparing it to perfection; and “Crumbaugh's peach”
was, in my day, a sort of proverb with all who travelled
in his parts. Major Mandrake took care to
have the very best whisky—of particular strength
and peculiar flavour; and there was a class, and
this no small one neither, that might readily be found
to give it preference. I class myself among none of
these. The oily excellence of the peach of Crumbaugh
is still a flavour on “memory's waste;”
(query, “taste?”) and whisky was never a favourite
of mine, though I have partaken of it along
with governors and judges, senators and saints.

But to return to the curious Mrs. Horsey. The
dispersion of the crowd, as it ceased to furnish her
with any new subjects of interest, necessarily left her
somewhat more free to remember the injunctions of
her husband; and she was about to turn from the
window, with a long drawn sigh of weariness, or
dissatisfaction that the show was over, when a smart-looking
youth, whom she did not know, rode up to
her door.

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“Oh, Mr. Horsey,—a gentleman—on a fine roan
horse—he's at the door—I reckon he wants to see
some of us, and maybe comes to look after a lodging
for to-night. I knew the major was full, and
the captain—”

“Now, the devil take the major and the captain,
and all the taverns in the state, since they drive
every thing out of your brain that ought to be there;”
was the angry speech with which the stubborn husband
interrupted the wandering soliloquy of his
spouse. “Why don't you see what the stranger
wants, woman?—you heard his knocking, and there
you stand, guessing about tavern business, and such
matters as you've no need to think, much less to
speak about.”

“La! John Horsey—you're too positive and contrarious;
not let a body think—”

“No! What the devil should you think for?
that's my business, I tell you now, as I've told you
a good hundred times before. But go to the door;
don't stand there staring like a gray owl in a green
bush; go and open the door and see what the man
wants, unless you desire that I should get up with
my lame leg and show him in. Won't you go, I ask
you.”

“Well, John, don't you see I'm going? You're
always in such a fret.”

“Enough cause too, with such a trouble as you
are.”

“Yes, sometimes I'm any thing but a trouble;
there's no word you have too good for me; and then
agin—”

“There's none too bad;” said the splenetic husband,
finishing the speech as she had begun it;
“but go to the door, as if you had some life in you,
or the stranger will batter it down before you get
there.”

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There was some reason, indeed, for the apprehension
expressed by Horsey, as the applicant for admission,
seeing that no heed was given to his first
summons, yet hearing, without doubt, a buzzing of
the sharp controversy going on within, had renewed
his application with redoubled force, employing for
the purpose the but of a loaded whip, every stroke
of which told like a hammer upon the plank. The
dame started in compliance with the clamours from
without, rather than the impatient commands within;
for she still seemed panting for another word, and
muttered between her teeth, as she slowly moved towards
the door, something which, to the jealous authority
of her liege lord, seemed to denote a resolution
still to think as she pleased and when she
pleased, in spite of his declarations against her right
to do so.

“Look you, Bess, go to the door: and move a
little more quickly, if you don't want to make me
mighty angry. See what the stranger wants; and
remember we don't keep a lodging-house any longer.
We have no room; we want no company.”

This was spoken in those subdued tones, and with
that show of suppressed and striving feeling, which,
perhaps, denote a greater degree of earnestness and
resolution than any words might do. The effect
upon the wife was instantaneous, and her hand was
soon upon the lock.

“Remember, we have no lodging,” murmured the
husband, as the door opened. “I only wish I were
a mile or two back in the woods, where I mightn't
be worried as I am about board. There was a
time when I might have been glad of a good stand
on the road, but it's not so now. I can live like a
gentleman, and why should I be bothered to get
breakfasts, and see after strange horses, for people I

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shall never see but once, and don't want to see at
all? I'll—”

The words of the stranger, spoken in bold, free,
musical language, which reached the ears of the invalid
at that moment, put an end to the soliloquy.

“Mrs. Horsey, ma'am?”

“He might swear to it, if he knew only half as
much as I,” exclaimed the invalid.

The stranger, a tall, well-made youth of twenty-five
or thereabouts, meanwhile, drew up his steed,
lifted his cap handsomely from his head, like one
born a courtier, with a grace that found its way instantly
to the lady's heart, and proceeded in his inquiries.

“I have been advised, Mrs. Horsey, by a particular
friend, to seek lodgings at your house during my
stay in Raymond. Can I have them?”

Before the good lady, prefacing her denial with a
long apology and a pleasant smirk of the face, could
bring out what she was preparing to say, the rough
voice of the sultan from within, gave his answer to
the stranger.

“Can't have 'em, my friend—this is no lodging-house—
no room to spare.”

“Very sorry, indeed,” said the old lady.

“Not sorry at all, stranger,” said the truth-speaking
Horsey; “for you see, if we wanted to lodge
you, the thing might well enough be done. But we
don't set out to keep company, and there are taverns
enough in the village.”

“Scarcely, if the story is true, that they are all full,”
replied the stranger; “but let me alight and see you.
I have a message to you, madam, and to your husband
from my friend Carter, who tells me that he
lodges with you, and that you could easily find me
lodgings also for the little time I mean to stay in
Raymond.”

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The effect of this speech was instantaneous upon
the man of the house. He barely heard the youth
through ere he replied,—

“Eh! what's that you say, my friend? Did you
say, Carter—was it Ben Carter that sent the message?”

“The same,” replied the youth, while entering the
house.

“And why the d—l, stranger, didn't you say so
at first, without any prevarications. What's the
use of this cursed long palaver, when two words
could have done the whole business. Of course we
can give you lodgings. Ben Carter told you nothing
but the truth. He has a habit of speaking the
truth which would be very good for many other
people to take up, not meaning you, stranger, for if
you be a friend of Ben Carter, I reckon, it's like you
are of the same sort of stuff.”

“You speak only as my friend deserves, Mr.
Horsey. Carter is the very man you describe him.
True in all his words, and just in all his dealings
with men, it is my pride in esteeming him one of the
most valuable and closest friends I have. It is not
amiss, Mr. Horsey, to add that he has an opinion of
you, no less favourable than yours of him.”

“Tush, young man, soft soap don't tickle me at
my time of life,” replied Horsey with an Indian
grunt of seeming indifference. “I am as I am, and
it's no great matter what I am, seeing that I'm of
little use in this world at present, and likely to be of
less; yet it's not a bad thing to have the good words
of them that's good. It sort o' reconciles a man to
a great many evil things that might otherwise bring
him a mighty deal of trouble. And Ben Carter is
a good man,—when did you see him last?”

“Some ten days ago. He left me at Monticello,
and was on his way to Jackson, from which place

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he promised to return directly to this. He was to
meet me here to-night.”

“Well, I reckon he'll be as good as his word, if
there's nothing to stop him on the way. He's
mighty punctual to his business, and when he says
he'll do, you may count it done. True as steel, is
Ben Carter, and it's no use to say farther. Bess,
let's have something. What'll you take, stranger?—
there's some mighty fine peach, some of Crumbaugh's
peach, as they call it, which is pretty much the same
as calling it the very best in Massissippi. I have
some old Monongahela besides, which I can speak
a good word for—sugar, Bess.”

The beverage was soon prepared, and the two
were about to drink, when Horsey reminded the
other of a degree of inequality between them which
needed to be reconciled before they could properly
drink health together.

“You have all the advantage on your side,
stranger; my name's John Horsey,—that, it seems,
you know already; but yours—what's your name?
There's no pleasure in calling a man `stranger'
every minute, when you're talking and drinking together
all the while.”

“True,” replied the stranger; “but I never thought
of that. My name, Mr. Horsey, is Vernon—Harry
Vernon. It is not improbable that you have heard
it before from my friend Carter.”

“Don't recollect, don't think I ever did. Vernon,
Vernon—it's a good name enough—comes smooth
and easy to the tongue as a gentleman's name ought
to do always; but Harry, Harry Vernon! You
wasn't christened Harry, I reckon, Mr. Vernon?
Must have been Henry, and they call you Harry for
short.”

“For short, say you? Well, it may be so,” replied
the stranger with a laugh, “but long or short,

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I was never called by any other since I have known
myself; and never, until this moment thought of
asking which of the two I had the clearest right to
make use of.”

“The old people living, Mr. Vernon? Your
health, sir, in the meantime. That's what I call
peach brandy, sir,—no make b'lieve,—none of your
whisky run through peach timber such as they give
you at Orleans. Old Crumbaugh warrants that
stuff, and gets his price for it. Did I hear you, Mr.
Vernon? the old people, you said they were living.”

“Neither, sir.”

“Try another sip, Mr. Vernon,” said the other
consolingly, “peach perfectly harmless; Crumbaugh
keeps the temperate society house; warrants his
peach; calls it sobriety peach; and so you've lost
both parents, Mr. Vernon?”

“Both—all, sir. I may almost exclaim with the
Indian, that there runs no drop of my blood in the
veins of any human being.”

“Don't say that, Mr. Vernon, don't say that. It's
much more than any man can say, and be certain.
Fathers, sir, are apt to leave children where they
never look for them; there's something of that sort
at my own door, Mr. Vernon, and so—”

“La, John, how you do talk.”

“What, you're there, Bess, are you?” The
chuckle of the veteran was arrested, and probably a
long string of confessions, by the timely ejaculation
of his wife, who happened to be busy in the closet,—
“these women, Mr. Vernon—but you're married?”

“No!”

“Be thankful, young master—it's a pleasure then
to come, if it comes as a pleasure, which is something
like Bazil Hunter's pea crop, `a very doubtful
up-coming.' You will run your race like the rest of
us, and come up at the post as usual, but it won't be

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the starting-post, I tell you! You was saying something
about the Indians, and that brought up some
recollections of mine when I was among them. I've
been among all the Southern Indians, except the
Catawba. I've never been among them, and I reckon
there's but few of them now left to see; but I've been
among the Creeks and the Cherokees, the Choctaws
and the Chickasaws, and there was another tribe,
when I first came into these parts, that I hear nothing
of now, called the Leaf River Indians, there was but
few of them, and I think they belonged to the Chickasaws,
but they were the handsomest Indians I ever
did see in all my travelling, and I begun early. I used
to trade, when I was little, a mere sprout of a boy,
from Tennessee, through the mountains, into North
and South Carolina,—then after that to the Massissippi;
and many's the time I've made out to carry a
matter of five pack-horses,—I and three other lads
of Tennessee—through the very heart of the `nation,'
without so much as losing a thimble, and almost
without having a scare. In one of these journeys I
saw my wife, then a mere bit of a girl.—What! not
gone, Bess!—It's gospel truth, Mr. Harry Vernon,
from that day there's been but one pack-horse in our
family, and that's Jack Horsey himself.”

“La! now, John,” cried the wife with uplifted
hands, “the stranger don't know your ways, and
he'll take for true what you're a-telling him. That's
jist the way with him, stranger—”

“Stranger!—the gentleman's got a name, Bess.
Mr. Vernon, Mr. Harry Vernon; remember, now,
it's not Henry, but Harry Vernon.—Mr. Vernon,
this is my wife. You'd soon enough find that out,
if you lodged with us awhile. And now, Bess, be
off, and look after supper;—a silent wife, and a singing
kettle—it's not always we can have 'em, Mr.

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Vernon, but that only helps to make them the more
desirable.”

Mrs. Horsey was not to be sent off, however, in
so conclusive a manner. The complaints of Horsey,
touching the constraints upon him of his better half,
were ludicrous enough; contrasted, as they were,
with the almost despotic sway which he exercised at
every instant. Perhaps a latent desire to show her
guest that her good lord did not have it altogether
his own way, led her on this occasion to dispute his
commands.

“It's not time for supper, John Horsey. Now
that you're lame, you seem to think of nothing but
eating and drinking.”

“Did mortal husband ever hear to such a woman?”
was the exclamation of the sultan. The wife mistook
for compliance a mildness in the speech which
was only due to the astonishment of the speaker.
She continued:—

“It's a good hour to supper yet. We have our
hours, John Horsey, jist the same as the major,
and—”

“Now d—n the major, and d—n the captain, and
d—n all the taverns in Massissippi. Thus it is, Mr.
Vernon, a wife will make a man swear, sir, when
there's nothing in the world farther from his wish.
You see, sir, my wife will do and say just what she
pleases, as I told you. She will always be bringing
up to me those cursed taverns; but I'll stop that, or
there's no snakes! Look you, Betsey!”

Here his finger guided her to the door, through
which she made her departure in the shortest possible
space of time. A look had done what, probably,
no word in John Horsey's vocabulary could have
achieved half so soon.

“A good woman enough, Mr. Vernon; but women,
sir, are women; and the very best of them are

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incapable of serious concerns: they are all triflers—
mere children—a sort of gingerbread creatures, the
ginger of which lasts a deused sight longer than the
molasses. But, as you were saying, Mr. Vernon,
you are a lawyer.”

“You have guessed rightly, sir, that is my profession
indeed. Your ears are something better than
mine, I think, for I do not recollect ever having told
you the fact.”

“Nor did you, my dear fellow,” replied the old
man with a hearty laugh. “It was, as you say, a
mere guess of mine, and Jack Horsey's guess is seldom
short of the mark. It's a way with me to take
for granted, just as if my neighbour had said it, the
thing which it appears to me reasonable to think he
will say; and I could ha' sworn, from a rakish,
sharp, lively something about your face and eyes,
and a little swing of your shoulders, that you was a
lawyer, or going soon to be one. You practise in
Monticello.”

“I came from Monticello last, but it is not my
residence.”

“Well, but you practise law somewhere in Massissippi.”

“I shall in season, I doubt not, provided I get
clients. Young lawyers find in this their chief difficulty.
They practise with some such rule as governs
a good angler,—where the fish bite best,
there you are sure to find them. For my part, I am
but too lately admitted to determine where the best
water lies for my purposes; I have not yet thrown
out my lines.”

“And that you won't do till your hooks are well
baited, for that I believe is one of the first lessons
which a lawyer learns. I know'd if you had begun
to practise, you hadn't done much in that way; your
chin is almost too smooth, though that's no

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misfortune as times go, if so be your tongue proves smooth
and oily like your chin. But there, it seems to me,
Mr. Vernon, that your difficulty lies. I'm afraid
you ha'n't got the gift of the gab. I haven't heard
you say much.”

“And for a very excellent reason, Mr. Horsey:
you haven't given me a chance. Your tongue has
utterly outwagged mine, and I yield the palm to you,
where my vanity, perhaps, would allow me to yield
it to few other persons. But, it is now my turn, and
if I do not prove myself quite your equal before I'm
done with you, I will at least convince you that I am
not entirely without my claims to take rank among
the mouthing part of my profession.”

“Spoken like a man, and a good fellow,” cried
Horsey, with a hearty laugh, and with no sort of
discomfiture at a retort as just as it was unexpected.
“I have better hopes of you now, Mr. Harry Vernon.
'Ecod, you gave it me then,—a raal dig in the
side with a sharp elbow. The truth is, I am a leetle
too much given to hearing myself talk, and what's
worse, I can't easily be convinced that it is not my
neighbour whose tongue all the while has been
making the hellabaloo. Somehow or other, thinking
of what the man ought to say, that I'm talking to,
I come to think he says it, and half an hour after,
could almost take my Bible oath to the fact. It's a
strange infirmity, Mr. Vernon; don't you think so?”

“Very,—very strange,” said the other, smiling at
the seeming seriousness of his companion.

“And so, you were telling me you practise law in
Orleans.”

“No—”

“Ah, Mobile, yes—Mobile you said.”

“Nay, nay, Mr. Horsey, I said neither,” replied
the youth laughing out aloud; “this is only another
sample of the infirmity you were telling me about—

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

another of your guesses—and I will not tell you how
far from the truth. But it is my turn now, and while
I throw another stick upon your fire, and draw my
chair a foot closer, I will prepare my thoughts for
the cross-examination which I mean to give you in
turn.”

“Ah, well; but `wait a bit and take a bit,' first,
as we say in Massissippi. We'll have it over after
supper, when you may try your skill upon me, for a
first witness, and see what you'll get for going. I'm
a tough colt to ride, when the bit hurts me; and he
must be a skilful rider, indeed, if he saves himself a
throw.”

“We shall see, we shall see,” said Vernon confidently,
and with a smile of good nature; while the
old man, with whose humour the course which the
youth had taken seemed admirably to tally, told him
a dozen anecdotes of the young lawyers round about
the country, with most of whom he had had sharp
passes of wit, and in all cases, according to his own
phrase and showing, had “come down uppermost.”

CHAPTER II.

“If you look in the maps of the 'orld, I warrant you shall find, in
the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations,
look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon, and there is also,
moreover, a river at Monmouth; it is called Wye at Monmouth, but it
is out of my prains what is the name of the other river; but 'tis all
one, 'tis so like as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in
both.”

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

The landlady spread her little board, on which a
broiled chicken and sundry smoking slices of ham
soon made their appearance. Chubby biscuits of
fresh Pittsburgh flour, formed a pyramidal centre in
the table arrangements, and a capacious bowl of
milk stood beside them. Coffee, which is the sine
qua non in a western supper, was of course not
lacking; and appetite, that commends even the unflavoured
pulse and the dry roots, rendered necessary
no idle solicitings to persuade our young traveller to
do justice to a meal, in preparing which, the good
hostess had spared nothing of her store.

“Fall to, Harry Vernon, and don't wait on me,”
was the frank command of Horsey, as, grunting and
growling the while, he worked his rocking chair,
foot by foot, up to the side of the table, and drew
from it one of the plates into his lap. Vernon had
his good word for the hostess, and in a little time
proved himself to be in possession of the best wisdom
of the traveller, whom experience teaches, that good
humour and a cheerful spirit are the most valuable
stores which he can take with him in a course of

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

western travel. We recommend them to all your
ill-favoured bookworms who carry their stilts with
them into our swamps and forests, and fancy all the
while that they can see any thing, who never cease
looking on their own pedestals. Vernon had been
already something of a wayfarer. Necessities of
one sort or another, had schooled him into a knowledge
of men of every sort, and it was a rational
boast which he was sometimes wont to make, in the
glow of a youthful and pardonable vanity, that he
could go from Tampa bay to the Rocky mountains,
and win good usage and a smile with his supper
every night. Such a brag may be made by few
with safety. Invidious comparisons constantly rise to
our minds as we think of the little and peculiar luxuries
of our homes, and we lose our appetite for that
which is before us, by suffering our feeble fancies to
trouble us with the memories of what we cannot
have. Your Englishman is a traveller of this sort.
From the first jump which he makes from Dover, or
Liverpool, he begins to smell out novelties which
are always offensive to self-conceit, simply because
they are novelties. His sole business from that moment,
seems to be to discover in what things his
present differs from his past, and to find fault and
grumble accordingly. He turns up his nose with
such an inveterate effort from the beginning, that it
remains in that inodorous position for ever after.

But we have nothing now to do with him. Vernon,
as we have said, was of very different temper;
lively, bold, frank, generous, he was just the sort of
person to commend himself to the southern and
western people. His dignity never apprehensive of
doubt and denial, was never on the watch to take
offence at every thing in the least degree equivocal.
To avoid controversy, to avoid the crowd, to yield
gracefully in argument, and to forbear pressing his

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

advantage at the proper moment—were some few
of the maxims by which, avoiding every prospect of
offence, he gained the most substantial victories, as
well over the hearts as the understandings of those
with whom he contended. Fluent in speech, with a
memory abounding in illustration and anecdote, a
fancy lively and playful, an imagination vigorous
and bold, the profession which it seems he had
chosen, appeared to be that in which, above all
others, he promised most to excel. Such, we may
add, was the opinion of his friends, and such, were
it proper for the narrator to predict, was the appropriate
event after the lapse of that usual period of
probation, to which it is natural and well that all
ambitious minds should be subjected. Precocious
greatness is generally very short-lived.

There was that superiority in the mind of Harry
Vernon, which never suffered him to think himself
above the occasion. He could descend from the
abstract to the practical with an ease and rapidity
at once singular and successful. To rise from the
actual to the abstract is a far easier matter, and
hence it is that we have so many theoretical men,
who always fail in the attempt to carry out their
own principles. To accommodate himself to the
understandings of those he addressed without degrading
his own, was another of those advantages—
the result of actual experience in the busy world,
which, added to the store of our young traveller, and
supplied to him as it was supplied to others, in many
instances, the lack of money and the aid of powerful
friends. Before supper was fairly ended he had shown
some of these possessions, and Horsey, the rough,
garrulous, grumbling invalid, was not unwilling to
hear another voice than his own occupy those intervals
in the progress of the meal, which he had seldom
failed to fill up hitherto from his own resources,

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

and to his own perfect satisfaction. The youth requited
him with story for story, joke for joke, and
when, at the usual hour for retiring in the country,
where folks are very apt to go to bed with the fowls,
the worthy dame intimated to Vernon that his bed
was ready whenever he wished “to lie down;” her
spouse blazed out like a splinter of fat lightwood—
bade her be gone and not send the young man to
bed at dark, to tumble about half the night in sleeplessness
and stupor.

“That's the way, Harry; and by the Lord Harry,
it's a monstrous vexing way, my wife has got.
She goes to bed at dark, you see; she's kept up a
little longer to-night than's customary with her; and
before day-peep she's a-stirring, and a-tossing, and
a-calling up the niggers. Now, you see, I can't
sleep soon o' nights for the life of me. I never
could ever since I was a lad driving my pack-horses
over the mountains. 'Twas then I got a sort o'
habit of sitting up late. When we'd come to a running
water, or a spring, or some such fine place for
a camp, why we'd drive stakes, cut bushes, make
tents, and fasten our horses. Then we'd feed 'em,
git up a fire, and set to preparing our own feed.
Well, we'd have to do all this mighty slyly, I tell
you, for fear of the Indians. We'd git away from
the main track, hide our horses pretty deep in the
small woods, and put our fire in a sort of hollow, so
that nobody could see the blaze. Then we'd git
round it, put down a hoe and a griddle, bake the
biscuit and broil the venison. Ah! Vernon, it was
mighty sweet eating in that fashion. There's no
meal I ever ate that come up to them. And as we'd
eat, we'd talk about what happened to this one, and
what happened to that; and how many scares and
dangers we'd had; and then we'd steal off, taking
turns at that business, to look after the horses, and

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

up and down the road, to see all was right. And
so we'd pass the night, Mr. Vernon; and in the
morning, betimes, we'd brush up and gear the animals,
and put on our packs, and be ready for a start
by dawn; and many's the time, Vernon, my boy, in
them days, that I've taken `Sweetlips,' that ugly
long-shanked rifle you see there in the corner, and
dropped a turkey from his roost in the tree jist over
the horses, so fat that his breast-bone split open by
the time he thumped the ground. Ah! them days,
Mr. Vernon, them blessed days, with all their troubles,
and all their dangers, I'd give all I'm worth, or
ever hope to be worth, if they only were to go over
again. But it's no use pining for what can't be got.
We can't always be young, Mr. Vernon, and if we
could, pack-horses are gone out of use, and there's
no Indians to make us lie snug and suspicious, telling
stories that helped to frighten us the more. The
Choctaws will soon be gone, and the Cherokees and
Creeks, I s'pose, though they're something farther
off, and I don't know so much about them. You
can tell though, Mr. Vernon, seeing you're jist from
Mobile.”

Horsey, with an inevitable tendency, had recurred
to his old practice. The youth replied good
humoredly,—

“I haven't seen Mobile for months, Mr. Horsey;
but you forget, it is my turn to question now, and
lest you should start off, and throw me out again,
I will begin at once. Have you had many visiters
in Raymond—many strangers, I mean, until this
time, within the last two weeks?”

“Psha, Harry Vernon, say what you want in plain
terms. Is it a man, or a woman, you're in chase of?
It's a man, I reckon; for Ben Carter a'n't the chap
to encourage young lawyers to be running about the

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

country after women. Am I right in my guess,
Vernon?”

“Suppose I tell you, then, a woman?”

“Well, I've nothing to say; but I hardly think it.
Are you sure it's a woman, now?”

“Nay, there's no certainty about it. A small man,
in woman's clothes, might very easily pass himself
off for one,” said Vernon, with an air of musing.

“Yes, nothing very strange in that, if he had to
make a run for it, and had hope of outdoing his
enemy's head sooner than his heels. Your chap
has no such hope, I reckon, Mr. Vernon.”

“It may be not; but man or woman, Mr. Horsey,
have you had any strangers in the village lately?”

“Well, I'm the very last person in Raymond to
see strangers, unless they come to me. I ha'n't
walked out of the house for the last five weeks, and
jist make out to hobble up to bed, when it's time to
lie down. There's my wife, now,—she can tell you
more than I. She sees every thing and every body, I
think, that comes into the village; I don't know but
she sees whoever goes out of it. She's a most curious
woman,—my wife—likes to pry into every
body's business, and know all about them, but she
means no harm; good woman—she's fast asleep
now.”

A hearty laugh of Vernon followed these praises
of the wife, which she was no longer in a condition
to hear; and drawing nigher to his companion, he
renewed his inquiries, though with a slight change of
topic.

“Your wounded limb disables you from seeing
much of the world at present, Mr. Horsey, but it has
not always disabled you, and there are some parts
of it which I know you have seen, about which I
would like to obtain some information—the `Choctaw
purchase,' for example.”

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

“How do you know I've been in the `nation?”'
demanded Horsey, with some gravity.

“You told me so, yourself.”

“The d—l I did! Can it be possible! Well, it is
strange how difficult it is, when a man's growing old,
for him to keep his own secrets. Out he pops with
every thing he knows, and with the help of a long
tongue, he will empty the longest head. Are you
sure I told you I had been in the `nation,' Mr. Vernon?”

“I think so, sir.”

“You are not certain, then. It is very probable
you are mistaken, sir. I should wish to think so, for
I look upon it as one of the last signs of dotage when
a man can't keep his secrets.”

“But this is no secret, surely. Can there be any
harm in stating so simple a fact,” demanded the
youth, with curiosity mingled with amusement to
discover in a man of so much good practical sense,
an apprehension so ridiculous.

“So simple a fact has hung a man before to-day,
as your law books should have told you. Not that I
fear to be hung for any thing I've done, whether
among Creeks, Cherokees, or Choctaws. I've had
something to do with all of them in my time, and can
show some marks of my acquaintance with the red
rascals; but then there's no sort of need to tell every
thing a man knows, even when it does him no harm
to tell it, and when a man's brains become like a
bottle of sassafras beer, ready to boil over when a
little warm, I think he may as well cast up his accounts,
and get his coffin made. But, sir, I have
been in the `purchase' and maybe can tell you what
you want to know.”

“To what portions do the people go who settle
there now? Which are the portions most in demand?”

“Oh, there's a sprinkling of our people every where,

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

there's no stopping them when they begin. When
you think you've got to the end of the settlements,
there's still some further on; and the business of the
squatter always carries him over the line of the old
settlements. But the quiet folks that have got something
to go upon and something to lose, they stick
a little behind. It does seem to me, that, if it's them
you're asking for, you'll find a smart chance of them
between the Yazoo and the Big Black, mostly along
the edges of the Big Black, and not often west of the
Yazoo. A heap of little towns are growing up along
the Black. I could name to you a dozen, but it's no
more use naming little towns than little chickens,
there's so many of them, and they all look so much
alike.”

“And the gamblers, Mr. Horsey, where do they
keep?”

“Nowhere in particular, and that's the same as
saying every where. But—I needn't ask you, seeing
you're Ben Carter's friend—I was going to say
I hope you wasn't looking after company among
them.”

“No, no; but are they numerous?” demanded
the youth with interest.

“As peas in a fair season.”

“They are audacious, too?”

“D—d infernal impudent, if you let them. If
you go up in those parts it's my advice to you to
keep finger on trigger and use your pistol at a word.
It's a'most always the quickest hand that gets off
with fewest scratches, and to stand palavering with
a scoundrel, that you know to be a scoundrel, about
what's right, and what's not right, is, to my way of
thinking, little better than begging an ass not to kick
you, while you make a slow journey under his heels.”

“But you're not always sure that it is a scoundrel—”

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

“Sure as a gun; there's no chance of a mistake
if you keep your senses about you. But that's the
trouble. It's how to keep your senses about you,
Harry Vernon, that's the greatest question. Now,
I'm clear to say, that it's only by getting drunk,
being put in a passion, or having soft soap poured
down their backs, that men lose their senses, and afterward
lose every thing beside. If they wouldn't
listen to smooth words from every stranger they
meet; if they wouldn't stop to hug the whisky bottle,
instead of taking a quiet kiss and walking on;
if they wouldn't get into a passion about every fool
speech they hear, then I'm clear, they'd never get
cheated out of their money, and knocked on the
head, like a blind puppy in a dark night. Now,
Harry, you see the danger before you. So long as
a man keeps his senses, there's not so many dangers
in life, and they may be all got over by a quick head
and bold heart. But it won't do to believe in sweet-spoken
strangers, and it won't do to quarrel about
a fool jest, and it won't do to get drunk. I wouldn't
advise a lad to go up into the Yazoo, now, while its
unsettled, as I may say, and none but scatterers
about; but if you must go, mind your own business,
make no more friends than you can help, and keep
sober as a judge. Come, sir, you've been talking
long enough, let's have a toddy.”

“Thank you—no more, Mr. Horsey; and let me
correct your errors as we proceed. It is you and
not I, who have been doing the talking for the last
half hour; and to say truth, I am so well pleased
with your eloquence, that I'm for having more of it.”

“No gammon, my lad, none of that. But I'm
willing to tell you all I know, so long as you don't
ask for it all. What's next.”

“What officers of the law may be found in those
parts, in the event of my being in want of them?”

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

“Lord keep you from law officers in your own
case, my lad, though as a lawyer, it's like enough,
you'll be making them toil hard enough in the business
of other people. But what makes you think of
them—do you calculate on any trouble?”

“Nay, that matters not, my friend. Should I
have any trouble, which a man of the world, who
lives in the world, must always look for, I should
like to know in how much I may depend upon the
countenance and protection of the law in the places
to which I'm going.”

“Depend upon a hickory sapling and your own
teeth rather. Depend upon steel and bullet, Harry
Vernon, when you're on the Yazoo. What the
d—l would a man expect to find, out, away on the
very skirts, as I may call it, of civilization? Would
you have gentlemen and Christians in a part of the
world where there's no timber cut, no lands cleared,
no houses built, nothing done, but what's done by
the squatters and that sort of people? No, no: your
only chance is a keen eye, a quick hand, and a
steady head. Trust to these in the Yazoo; there
are few better friends any where.”

“The counsel of one who has certainly done more
by their help than most men;” responded Vernon,
with a compliment that was not displeasing to the
veteran, and showed a degree of intimacy with his
history on the part of his guest, which proved him
to have been no inattentive auditor of himself and of
his friend Carter;—“but,” continued the youth,
“what can you tell me of the `Braxley settlement.”'

“Not a syllable—I know nothing good of it, however;
though I couldn't say, more than from general
report, any thing bad agin it.”

“What of `Ford's camp?”'

“Nothing.”

“Georgeville?”

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

“That's sprung up into a village since my day.
I believe it's a poor affair:—but two or three stores
or thereabouts. I never saw the place but once, and
then there was but one; I didn't stay in that longer
than to take a sup of whisky. If there's nothing
better in it than the whisky, don't go there. It's a
place to shun, Mr. Vernon.”

“What of Lexington?”

“Don't know the place.”

“Squab Meadow?”

“Never heard of it.”

“There's a little village called Lucchesa, that lies
somewhere upon Green Briar Creek in Carroll
County. Do you know any thing about that? it's a
new village.”

“New to me, yet I think I have heard the name;
there are several little villages grown up since I've
been in those parts, and, for that matter, they grow
up every day. I know the country well enough, but,
bless your soul, Mr. Harry Vernon, it's no sign of
ignorance in Massissippi, not to know the towns by
their names. We can't find names for half of 'em.”

This was said with some signs of impatience, and
the youth, though still seemingly desirous of pressing
for information which was yet desirable to obtain,
was compelled to rest contented with the imperfect
statistics already gleaned, which, perhaps, no continued
examination of the old man would have rendered
more complete.

“I am afraid I have wearied and worried you,
Mr. Horsey, without much help to myself. What I
get from you is to the full as satisfactory as the
comparisons of that categorical personage, Captain
Fluellen; `There is,' says he, `a river in Macedon,
and there is also, moreover, a river at Monmouth,'
&c.”

The youth gave in full the passage which has been

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

prefixed as an epigraph to this idle chapter, and
which we care not to repeat again. Portions of the
quotation, however, and the authority referred to,
seemed to disquiet our landlord.

“Fluellen,” said he; “where was he captain?
There's Captain Fenelon, I know, that heads the
`Buck Swamp Rangers,' and that's the nearest name
to it, I can think of. I know Fenelon, and a mighty
clever fellow he is; a little too fond of the girls
perhaps; but that only hurts himself. It isn't him,
you mean.”

“No, no—Fluellen is a captain far more famous,
I think, than Fenelon will ever become. He is one
of the honoured names of Shakspeare—the world
renowned—”

“That d—d player-man!” cried the impatient
landlord, interrupting the eulogy which our hero had
begun, of the merits of the divine bard. “Look
you, Mr. Vernon, if you want that we should keep
friends, and part friends, say no more of that player-fellow
and his cursed books; don't I beg you.”

The youth was silent from wonder for a few moments,
to behold such an earnest countenance as the
speaker wore while he uttered this serious remonstrance.
When he recovered breath, it was to expostulate.

“In the name of wonder, and all the wonders,
Mr. Horsey, but how is this? How is it that you
are so hostile to a writer whom all the world joins
to honour and applaud?”

“The world, Mr. Vernon, may honour as it
pleases, and it frequently gives honour where very
little is due. But it's the honour which the world
gives to this same player-fellow, which has done
more to make me an unhappy man, than any thing
in the world beside.”

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

The wonder of the youth increased, and a single
word conveyed his farther interrogation:

“How?”

“I have a son, Mr. Vernon; you haven't seen him
in my house; nor, till this minute, have you heard
his name from my lips; nor, perhaps, from the lips
of Ben Carter, though you may have got a good
deal out of him. Well, sir, this son of mine, got in
with some of these player-fellows at Mobile or Orleans,
and they carried him to their blasted stagehouses,
where he got possession of these Shakspeare
books, and he's never been worth a picayune since
that day. He took up with the stage-fellows, got to
making a d—d fool of himself before the Mobile
people, and had the impudence to send me a paper,
a printed paper with a great heading, and his name
among the rest to play some pieces out of Shakspeare.
Sure enough, that very time my neighbour
here, Major Mandrake, that keeps one of the taverns,
being down on a visit to Mobile, saw Tom Horsey,
with his own eyes, come out in front of the whole
people, with a gold crown upon his head, and covered
with spangles, and dressed up, in a most ridiculous
way beside, jist for another chap, who come
out afterwards, to stick him with a sword. And
there he rolled about over the floor, until he died,
and the people shouted and clapped their hands, as if
he had done some great thing, and it was jist that
d—d stupid shouting and clapping, that led the fellow
to make such a bloody fool of himself. But
mind you, I don't mean to say that he died in airnest—
it was all pretence—all make b'lieve; but, by the
Eternal, Mr. Vernon, I'd rather a thousand times he
had died in raal airnest in a fair fight, than to have
fallen into such a folly, and brought disgrace upon
his family.”

A playful commentary upon this speech rose to

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

the lips of Vernon, as the old man concluded; but
the youth saw that the grief was too serious and
sacred, to suffer any light or irreverential remark.
He contented himself with inquiring into the fate of
a lad in whom he began to take some interest, the
rather, perhaps, because he saw the matter in a less
severe light than the father, and possibly because he
thought that the backwoods boy, wanting in all the
advantages of education and city life, who could
relish Shakspeare to so great a degree, must be of
something more than ordinary metal.

“And where is your son now, Mr. Horsey?”

“The saints know best, Mr. Vernon. Tom Horsey
has not darkened these doors since March gone
was a year.”

“But you hear from him?”

“Ay, sir, and of him. I hear from him when he
wants money, and of him when he has it. He makes
me hear when he's out, and makes every body else
hear when his pockets are full. The misfortune is,
that this Shakspeare fellow never comes alone. He
brings with him late hours and strong drink, and
damned bad company, Mr. Vernon; and what with
him and them, Tom Horsey is in the broad road to
destruction.”

“But do you provide him with money when he
demands it for such indulgences.”

“Fill your glass, Vernon; let us drink, and say
no more. I'm a surly, crabbed sort of creature;
they will all tell you so; and yet, they all wonder, and
I wonder at it myself, that I have so little strength
to do the things that I resolve upon. The boy's my
only boy, bad as he is, Harry Vernon; and he gets
more money from me than I ought to give him.
But, what's that? Did you hear nothing, Mr. Vernon?—
no voices—none—just below the window?”

The old man trembled with sudden agitation,

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

while bending forward to listen, as indistinct accents
fell upon his own and the ears of his guest. In another
instant, the room rang with a loud burst of declamation
from without, in which Vernon detected
some lines from the bard whom the old man had so
terribly denounced, but which now seemed to awaken
in his mind any other than hostile feelings. Meanwhile
the voice proceeded, and the passages spoken
seemed not inappropriate; and, perhaps, were chosen
from their partial fitness, to those relations between
father and son, which had formed the subject of the
previous conversation. The passage was from the
speech of Bolingbroke, third scene, fifth act of Richard
the Second.

The eye of the father caught the glance of his
guest earnestly fixed upon him, and in that instant
he recovered his composure.

“Now, out upon the scrub! he comes at last, with
his player-verses in his mouth—”

“Ay; but how truly do they suit, Mr. Horsey!”
was the reply of Vernon.

“Yes, indeed, well enough; but will they cure the
mischief that they tell of? No, sir; this graceless
rascal thinks it handsome to swagger with a belly
full of whisky, and a brain full of Shakspeare, at
the lowest tavern in the city of New Orleans. By
the Lord Harry, but he comes not in my door!”

A loud knocking from without answered this resolve;
and, following the glance of the father's eye,
Vernon rose quietly and opened the door to the son.

CHAPTER III.

“This fellow I remember
Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son;
'Twas where you wooed the gentlewoman so well;
I have forgot your name; but sure that part
Was aptly fitted, and naturally performed.”
Shakspeare.

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

The prodigal waited for no invitation to enter, but
bounced in, the moment the door was opened. Seeing
the stranger, he stopped short for an instant, his
deportment bearing equal marks of confident assurance,
and a reasonable consciousness of his own
demerits. The habits of the player-men, however,
got the better of his misgivings, and, without yielding
any farther notice to Vernon, after the first
glance, he advanced towards the father, prefacing
his movement with a hearty rowdy salutation, which
made the old man wince in his seat, at the gross disregard
of his dignity which it betrayed.

“Ha, dad! there you are, prime and hearty, as
though you never had a son, to `bring you cares for
inconsiderate youth,'—and how's the old lady, `our
venerable mother, keeps she well?' gone to bed, I
reckon, and fast; so I take it for granted she's as she
should be, and you, sir, you and—”

Here his eyes wandered to the seat which Vernon
had re-occupied.

“Puppy!” exclaimed the father, “can't you leave
off your cursed player nonsense, Tom Horsey, when
you're in a gentleman's presence. That, sir, is my

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

friend, Mr. Vernon, Mr. Harry Vernon, of Natchez,
or New Orleans, or elsewhere.”

“Sir, Mr. Vernon, of elsewhere, I am glad to
know you. `If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth,”
' was the prompt address of the actor, extending
his right hand, with an air of princely condescension.

“Monmouth, no!” cried the more literal father;
“Vernon, I said, Tom Horsey,—Mr. Harry Vernon.”

“The same—a good name, I think, sir, a very
good name, and I'm glad to know you. Mr. Vernon,
as I said before, `there's matter in this;' and,
some allowances must be made for the prejudices of
age, and a hard school, sir, against the drama. It
is only in the presence of gentlemen, sir,”—to his
father,—“let me tell you, that players should speak.
The very element they live in, sir, is in the applause
of the gentle and the wise—their pursuits are `caviare
to the general;' and let me tell you, sir, that
you risk not a little when you give way to this harsh
and most unjust manner of speech, in respect to a
profession, whose ill report while you live, it is said,
will do you more harm, than a bad epitaph when you
die. You will find the passage in Hamlet,—for the
rest, sir—have you any thing to drink.”

This speech was pretty evenly divided between the
father and his guest. When it was concluded, he
turned to the little table that stood between the elder
Horsey and Vernon, filled a glass for himself, and
drawing a chair from the corner of the apartment,
placed himself, with a show of sang froid, which was
not altogether felt, directly beside the father. The
old man could no longer restrain his indignation.

“You d—d conceited squab, where have you
been these eight months? Put down your glass, sir,
until you answer me.”

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

“Dry throats must needs make short speeches, sir—
I have been at school.”

“Do not mock me, Tom Horsey!—don't go too
far, boy, in playing your d—d theatre stuff on me.
I can't bear it much longer—you'll put me in a
rousing passion.”

“We'll have a rouse to-night, sir,—Mr. Vernon,
`the king drinks to Hamlet.' Don't think, sir,” addressing
his father, “don't think I shall forget you`
dad, but your glass remains unfilled. Shall I help
you?”

“Help yourself and be d—d. Answer my question.
Where have you been these eight months?”

“Egad, sir, that's the most puzzling of all questions,
and the most correct answer that I can make you is
that which I have made already. At school, sir! In
the great school of the world, sir, I have been acquiring
my humanities or getting rid of them. Don't
you think me reasonably improved?”

“What have you done with the money I sent
you?”

“Paid my schooling with it, sir.”

“That is to say, you drank it out at taverns upon
your roaring companions, your drunken actors, your
bully gamblers, and all that strange sort of cattle that
you herd with in Orleans.”

“Alas! my father, revile not thus. Wherefore
will you speak of things which you know not. Have
more charity, I pray you. As for the poor sums of
money which you sent me, they were as nothing to
the good which they procured me. They brought
me to a knowledge of the fine generous spirits, who
are as much above the dirty wants and slavish necessities
of common clay, as the divine Shakspeare
is beyond all the thousand priests and pretenders that
officiate at the altar of the muse. Had you sent me
ten times the sums you speak of, I had freely shared

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

them all with the noble fellows whom your parsimony
has chiefly compelled me to leave.”

“Ay, and where would their generosity have carried
you, you ridiculous spendthrift. To the Calaboose—
to the Calaboose, you rascal. If it has not
already carried you there. Pitiful sums indeed!—but
you shan't impose on Mr. Vernon. You shall say
what these pitiful sums are; you shall tell him what
money I sent you, and let him say whether I have
not been almost as great a spendthrift as yourself.”

“No doubt, no doubt—I make no question, dad,
but that your extravagance has always exceeded
mine. I am but a chip—a small chip of the old block;
and—”

“Why, you impudent rascal, my spendings have
been altogether on you. If I have to reproach myself
with any extravagance at all, it is only in having
given you the means to make a fool of yourself.”

“`Wisely, indeed, and worthily bestowed'—you
do not repent, sir, of having provided for my subsistence?”

“I have done more, sir. What amount did I send
you by Bill Perkins?”

“Some fifty or a hundred dollars, as I think.”

“As you think! as you think! Tom Horsey, will
you lie too? Have your player-fellows taught you this
among their other accursed lessons. Speak, are you
in earnest!”

The old man's voice trembled, and passion seemed
to be succeeded in his choking utterance by a fear
that falsehood was to be included among the other
profligacies of one whom his own tenderness had
rendered somewhat incorrigible. Vernon watched
the scene with curious interest, and he remarked the
sudden flush which mounted up into the son's cheeks
at the accusation, as if conscious innocence revolted
within him at the injustice. Such was the

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

impression of the spectator, and it was confirmed by the
effect which it seemed to produce in the youth's tone
and general manner.

“You are a little too hard with me, sir,” was his
reply. “I admit that you sent me some money by
Perkins.”

“Three hundred, not fifty, sir—not fifty or a hundred,
but three hundred dollars, Tom Horsey.”

“Right, sir; Perkins brought me that sum, which
I trust you did not really think me base enough to
deny. When I said less I simply meant to compute
it by the time it lasted. It was the very sum you
name, sir, but it might just as well have been the
fifty—it was very short-lived.”

“Very well, sir,” said the father, glad to have an
excuse to forbear reproach and harsh language.
“And had it been fifty times as much, do you think
it would have lasted much longer with such company
as you keep? No, sir, they would have spent my
gains and your gettings, and counted my thousands
as you have learned to do by fifties and hundreds.
But that's not all. You got money from my factor
in Orleans. What sum got you, for to this day I
have never learned.”

“I sent you two thousand dollars by Major Mandrake.”

“I got it, but the crop sold for more, sir—cotton
was selling at sixteen; I had the price current of the
week, and have it now. What did my cotton bring?
You sent me the money but no account of sales, what
was done with that?”

“'Gad, sir, I know not, unless we used it to make
snow one night at C—dwell's when the storm gave
out. I remember, we were rather short of snow.”

“Tom, Tom, don't rouse me, don't put me in a
passion. I'm sick,—I can't bear it easily; and besides,
I don't want Mr. Harry Vernon to see what a

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

d—d fool I am to let you treat me as you do. What
did you get from my factor in all? let me know that.
You sent me two thousand—what did you keep?”

“Well, sir, as nearly as I can remember, about
seven hundred—”

“Seven hundred!'

“There may have been a forty or fifty tacked on
to it; but it certainly was not more than that. Suppose
we call it seven hundred and fifty dollars—`the
very head and front of my offending, hath this extent,
no more.”'

“And enough too, in God's name, to ruin any
man that's got so little to go upon as I,” responded
the father; “but there is more, Tom Horsey—you
took a hundred and seventy dollars with you when
you went; you collected ninety dollars from Michael
Hopper for so many bushels of corn; and what
have you done with Martin Groning's note for sixty-seven
dollars. If you got that, it makes—”

“But I haven't got that, dad. Groning's a great
rascal; `there must be lawings ere you get that
gold'—we shall have to set Master Phang upon him,
dad, before he settles.”

“No, let him go. It's but a poor sixty-seven dollars,
and I shouldn't miss so small a matter, if my
own son didn't help me to the loss of a great deal
more. But now count up, count up, Mr. Vernon,
these moneys as I call them out to you, and then say
whether I'm parsimonious, or whether there's a
spendthrift in my family, that'll let out at a thousand
mouths what his father was compelled to take in at
one.”

“Nay, don't count up, I beg you, dad,” cried the
profligate; “why will you bother Harry Monmouth
with these `small chores.' To count up money that
you have not, is to impoverish memory most cursedly.
The very thought of my spendings is a misery,

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

since it only the more forcibly reminds me of the
little that is left to spend. Wherefore have I left my
company, `my comates in exile,' but that the candle
was at the last snuff—wherefore have I trudged
homewards `on weary legs—”'

“You don't mean to say that you walked from
Orleans here, Tom Horsey?” cried the father, to
whom the last fragment of a quotation uttered by
his son suggested a new cause of apprehension.

“Not all the way. I had a cast in a steamboat
as far as Monticello, and a fling in a wagon for some
twelve or fourteen miles above; but, by the Lord
Harry, the widow's mare did the rest.”

“Why, where's your horse?”

“Gone—gone the way of all flesh.”

“Dead—how was that—the botts?”

“Ay, botts enough to take off a dozen horses.
The sheriff suspected I was out of money, and not
able to keep him any longer; and so relieved me of
the charge.”

“Seized for debt!” exclaimed the father aghast;
“a colt of my own raising—seized for debt!—eat his
head off in a livery stable!—ah, Tom, Tom! you'll
kill me yet!”

“At the suit of one Stubbs, a tailor; a fellow that
helped me to fit up my wardrobe, and brought suit
for all his suits. Thus was I nonsuited. But I
punished the scoundrel, you may be sure. I basted
him with his own yard-stick the night I left Orleans,
till there wasn't a seam in his carcass that couldn't
count stitches. You shall hear particulars some
day, Mr. Monmouth; a devilish good story—
but—”

“Look you, Tom, this gentleman's name is Vernon,
and not Monmouth. None of your tricks, I
tell you.”

“Vernon, is it? I ask pardon, but I thought it

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

was Monmouth—Harry Monmouth—it was Harry
you said—I'll swear to that.”

“You've a free tongue to swear, Tom Horsey;
but how would you like an oath of mine to cut you
off with a shilling, and leave you to the miserable
life you have so miserably begun. Answer me that,
sir: what would you think of such an oath? and
wouldn't it be justly deserved, Mr. Vernon?”

“Nay, father, do not bother Mr. Vernon any more
in this matter, and above all matters eschew the sin
of swearing. Oath taking is a bad business, and
unless you take some such rash oath as that you speak
of, I think I may promise you with safety to do nothing
again rashly as long as I live. I am come
home to be a sober fellow, follow the plough, drive
the wagon, bleed horses, and kill bacon. In short,
do just whatever is needful to make money, and keep
it afterwards.”

“Can you keep to this?” cried the delighted
father, who desired nothing more than such a concession
on the part of his son, as should save his
dignity, and obviate the necessity of more scolding.

“I think so—I'll try, sir.”

“Ah, Tom, for awhile only, I'm afraid. You'll
be reading in the newspaper about some new play-house
or some new actor, and then, nothing will
suit, but off you must go to see for yourself; as if
the reading of it wouldn't do as well.”

“It shall—it shall in future, dad. Don't be afraid
of me. I think I shall keep my promises this time,
for, do you see, whatever might be my own desires
to go to Orleans, the drubbing I gave the tailor,
Stubbs, will stand against me in the black books of
the law, and I have too great a respect for that
stately dwelling, the Calaboose, to risk the chances
of admission. As for the theatre itself, by my fears,
I have just as little reason to venture near it. My

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

chance is all up with the American, and my hopes
with C—dwell; but for that, dad, it might have been,
that you hadn't seen me home to-night.”

“Well, whatever it was, I'm glad it happened so;
but you don't mean, Tom, that you quarrelled with
the actors.”

“Ay, with the very chief of them—the manager.”

“Well, the stars be thanked, I'm a great deal
gladder than before. There's no hope of making
up the matter, Tom, is there?”

“But little, unless you lend your help.”

“God forbid! I lend my help!—I'd burn down
all their establishments, if I could. But how was
it, Tom—what was the quarrel? You didn't lick
him, too, as well as the tailor?”

“Egad, no! The boot was on t'other leg! It
was because I didn't lick him, that we quarrelled;
it was, by my soul!”

“Come, come, Tom, don't, now; none of your
d—d nonsense. We know it's all gammon that!
No man would quarrel with another because he
didn't lick him.”

“True as gospel, dad, professionally speaking.
An excellent adventure, by the way, Mr. Vernon,
and I must tell it. Dad, fill your glass!—an excellent
joke—fill, Mr. Vernon! You shall hear how I
came over the manager—how I struck him, even
when `soaring in his pride of place.”'

“I thought you said you didn't strike him, Tom?”
demanded the matter-of-fact father.

“You shall hear, sir. Understand, you are at the
American Theatre in New Orleans, C—ll, manager;
and your humble servant doing third and
fourth-rate characters at tenth-rate prices. Ten
dollars a week is scarcely enough for gentlemen of
my cloth; and just at this time Stubbs was writing

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

to me in the very language of Master Shallow, `I
beseech you, Sir John, let me have five hundred of
my thousand,' in other words, of less classical grace,—
`let me have but half of my bill.”'

“Drop the theatre talk, Tom,” whispered the father;
“drop it, d—n you, if you can.”

“It was necessary to remit, to raise the wind.
This was the difficulty. I had got rid of the seven
hundred, and the three hundred, and the other odd
hundred; and I had even drawn the week's salary
in advance. I had the horse, it is true, but the colt
was a favourite—I had helped to raise it; and, by
Jupiter, I had much sooner have parted with my
velvet plush breeches, than with Corporal.”

The old man gave an approbatory chuckle as
this show of proper feeling escaped his son in his
narrative.

“But you should have gone to the factors, or
wrote to me for the money, Tom, and redeemed the
nag. I'd rather than twice his value that you had
not lost him.”

The son winked to Vernon, as he replied—

“Ah, dad, Stubbs is not the only tailor in Orleans;
and one suit is not all that a poor devil actor has to
suffer before his wardrobe's complete. As I was
saying, I knew of no present mode of raising the
wind, and I had but one mode left me. I went to
the manager, implored him for a loan, on the strength
of future services. He denied me; `but was I to
be denied?' You shall hear how I fixed him.
That very night I was to play Richmond to his
Richard. The manager had a very strange notion
that he was a tragedian, and was, therefore, continually
going out of his element, to try waters which
were quite beyond his depth. He did well enough
as a genteel comedian, but that did not satisfy his
ambition; and among those who knew nothing

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

better, he did monstrous well. I remember the first
time I ever saw him was in tragedy. I went to
Orleans, dad, if you remember, with uncle Wat Stevens,
and he treated me to the show.”

“Damn him for it,” was the fervent ejaculation
of the father. The son proceeded without heeding
the interruption.

“Like the rest of the gaping countrymen around,
and the house was full of them, I thought him a wonderful
man, though I soon learned other things when
I looked a little more into the matter. But the opinion
of the manager himself underwent no change. He
was still ripe for tragedy and nothing else, and was
that very night, when Stubbs sent me his impudent
letter, to play Richard—I, Richmond. We went
through the piece very well, till we got to the death
scene. Then Richard tried his best, and I buckled to
him. I had wounded him, and he had fallen; but that
was nothing to a man determined to outdo Kean, and
make the ghost of Garrick gape with astonishment,
and shiver in his shroud. He rolled and writhed
about the stage, keeping up the fight as he did so,
and striving to show his skill of fence while in the
death agony. It was then that the thought seized
suddenly upon me to avail myself of the particular
predicament in which he stood—lay rather—to bring
him to an accommodation—to compel him to my
own terms. What do you think I did, Harry Monmouth—
Master Vernon, I mean—how do you think
I fixed him? A thousand to one you can neither of
you guess.”

Vernon confessed his inability, and the father,
now an attentive auditor, and a pleased one too, as
he beheld the evident attention of his guest, and observed
the more modest demeanour of his son, disclaimed
with equal readiness any ability to conjecture
the ruse de guerre made use of by the debtor

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

to extort from the dying actor, the loan he found necessary
to keep him from his tailor's clutches.

“I knew it—I knew it was beyond you both,”
was the chuckling response of Richmond to these
admissions. “It was a thought of my own, and my
own only; and what was it, you will ask. Hark
ye then in your ears; it was simply to forbear killing
him. I began to play slowly to evade his strokes
and avoid pursuit of him. You may imagine the
predicament of Richard, half-dead, and inviting the
fatal blow. He called to me in a hoarse whisper,
while twisting and writhing after, and sticking at
moments, when, in order to keep up appearances
with the audience, I suffered our swords to mingle.—
`Why the devil don't you play, Horsey?”'

“I answered him in a suppressed voice, speaking
in the gorge of my throat, so that he could distinctly
hear the emphasis which I employed, and supposed
that it could not altogether escape the hearing
of the audience. Yet, such was not the case.
It is an art of speech which I possess, and of which,
Mr. Vernon, you shall have a sample some day.

“`Look you, Richard,' said I, `it was only to-day
I asked you for a matter of seventy dollars to pay
off a d—d tailor that was troubling me. You refused
me, was that done like Richard?'

“`Strike on, you d—d fool,' said he, `or I'll
strike you off. What are you talking about? Strike!'

“`Never till you consent to let me have the money.
You sha'n't die by my hands to-night, Richard. I'll
leave you half-dead upon the stage, and for once
there shall be no catastrophe. Will you let me have
the money?'

“`Yes, yes, any thing,' was his answer; `but strike
on, the pit is getting impatient. Strike! strike!'

“We tugged away quite heartily then for a few
seconds, the house roared with applause, and some

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

of the groundlings, after he had received the coup de
grace, actually encored the performance, clearly signifying
a desire that he should do the death over again.
But, would you think it, the ungrateful tyrant refused
to let me have the money the next morning,
and added to the enormity of his conduct by giving
me my walking ticket. Was it not shocking, Mr.
Vernon? Did I not merit the money for the humour
of the thing? But he had no soul to feel it—none,
none!”

Before Vernon or the father could answer the
question, or comment upon the transaction, another
person entered the apartment and interrupted the
dialogue. The introduction to the new-comer must
be reserved for another chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

“It tastes
Of rank injustice, and some other end
Time will discover; and yet our grace is bound
To hear his accusation confirm'd,
Or hunt this spotted panther to his ruin.”
Shirley.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

The new-comer was one of whom the reader has
already heard. The quick eye of Vernon distinguished
his friend at a glance, nor was that of
the other less observant. The warmth of their embrace,
when they met, spoke for a deep mutual regard
between the two, not only superior to that
which belongs to ordinary friendships, but something
more than could be expected to appear in the case
of persons so unequal in years. Mr. Carter could
not have been less than forty-five; a tall, well made
man, with a fine, full, but dark countenance; an eye,
black and lively, but of benevolent expression; and
a look of amenity and kindness which denoted a degree
of soberness and subdued thought, in which the
buoyant spirits of the youth of twenty-five, could
scarcely find much that was congenial. Vernon
could not have been much more than twenty-five;
his temperament was evidently lively, if not rash;
and good humour and a playful spirit, seemed to
predominate in his disposition. The gravity, the almost
sadness, of Carter's countenance, was unreflected
in his own; and yet, it may be added, the

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

sympathy was quite as close between them, as could
be hoped for under any circumstances; and whatever
might be the difference of their moods and
wishes, under the influence of unequal ages, there
was none of that exacting severity, on the part of
Carter, or of that distaste to discipline, on the side
of Vernon, which might endanger the relation. If
Carter was grave, even to melancholy, he was, at
the same time, benign and indulgent. He could
make allowance for the impatience of youth, esteeming
it, perhaps, a fault that was not without
its virtues, in a country which calls more imperatively
for boldness and adventure, than any
other more sober qualities. If he smiled at the follies
of youth, it was the smile of indulgence, or, at most,
of pity, and not the ascetic grin of scorn and male-volence.
Vernon, on the other hand, warm, impetuous,
and lively, never once forgot the superior years
of his patron—for such was Carter—nor suffered his
veneration to undergo diminution, because the latter
sometimes encouraged him by the familiar freedoms
of the companion. The utmost confidence prevailed
between them, the result, possibly, of a mutual and perfect
knowledge of their several claims and character.
The observation of Carter had taught him that his
protegé was a man of the strictest honour, the nicest
sensibility, the most fearless courage, and the finest
talent. Vernon was no less assured of the high virtues
of one who had been to him a protecting and
wisely indulgent parent, in the place of all others,
from his very first moment of reflecting consciousness,
to that in which they meet the reader.

The entrance of Carter was the signal for the
flight of the soi-disant actor. His genius quailed before
the eye of the new-comer, in whom he recognized
a well known monitor, who did not spare his
rebuke, and whose influence upon the father, had

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

tended in no small degree to restrain his eccentricities,
by diminishing the money, which the old man
was but too ready to yield to his requisitions. Still,
the deportment of Carter was kind and gentle to him,
as to all the rest, and as it was, habitually, to every
body. His salutation differed not from his wont,
when he shook his hand, and bade him welcome
home, after so long an absence. But this forbearance
in no wise encouraged the erring Master Tom.
From a dashing, nonchalant personage, he became
suddenly subdued to the awkward country lout, only
anxious to know how best to effect his escape without
challenging attention to his movements. This he
was soon enabled to do, when he found the regards
of Carter chiefly bestowed upon the youth, and his
shoulder turned upon himself. He stole away, and
was followed after a little while, by old Horsey,
whom a sturdy negro assisted to his chamber. It
was there that he again found Young Hopeful, and
renewed the various dialogue, a sufficient sample of
which the reader has already had. We will not distress
him by a repetition of the dramatic slang, with
which Tom replied to, and annoyed his father; whose
chief objection to the quotations, lay, perhaps, in the
difficulty which he found to comprehend them. Our
present purpose carries us back to the apartment
which we left. There, the two, apparently resuming
a subject already partially considered, were earnestly
engaged in the adjustment of topics, the business of
which will form no small portion of the ensuing narration.
It may serve us, therefore, who design to
trace its progress to the end, to give some heed to a
conference which will, perhaps, the better enable us
to understand some of its objects, and of the histories
of those who are most conspicuous in its details.

“You are resolved then, my son; you know all

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

the adventure—its troubles, its dangers and the numberless
difficulties that surround it. These, you see,
at least, if nothing beside; and with a perfect knowledge
of these, and with the farther prospect of incurring
these risks and difficulties without effecting
your purpose, you freely and voluntarily determine
upon the journey?”

“Freely, willingly, my dear sir, and with a satisfaction,
not easily expressed, that I find you willing
to confide to me a charge of such importance,” was
the unhesitating reply of the youth.

The other squeezed his hand in silence for a few
moments ere he resumed.

“Perhaps, Harry, since such is your resolution, it
is due to you that I should unfold myself a little
more. Your confidence in me deserves it, and were
it not so, the confidence which I have in you leaves
me without fear that I incur a risk in giving you my
nearest secrets. From this I can suffer no harm,
now, not even in feeling, by its revelation. But a
few months, nay, a few weeks ago, it had been
otherwise. I am now free to relieve myself from
the accumulating pressure of a grief—a grief of
youth, that I have learned to silence, if not subdue,—
but which at length breaks from all restraints
when I am no longer young. You have seen this
man?”

“I have, sir.”

“Ay, but not to know him. He is my senior by
five years, but he was my associate—my friend—
when we were both young. Boyish friendships are
of little value at any time, and in most cases they
are of evil consequence. The name is perverted,
the tie is not an enduring one, and, even if other harm
does not come of it, the effect is evil in teaching us
lessons of distrust, when genuine worth implores our
confidence, and true friendship might be had by

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

kindred worth. But I will deal in facts and not in maxims.
William Maitland was my habitual associate
from boyhood. We came to Mississippi together,
and for several years I had no reason to regret my
confidence in him. We lived together harmoniously,
sought the same sports together, made the same journeys
in company, and took pleasure in the same society.
My labours grew prosperous, however, and
his did not. This made him discontented. He left
me and went down to Orleans, where he invested
his capital in trade. Two years elapsed before I
again saw him. I had in the meantime become acquainted
with the family of Col. Ralph Taylor, of
Pearl River. He was a worthy old gentleman, but the
chief attraction of his household in my eye, was his
youngest daughter Ellen. I loved her, Harry, with
all the ardour of a heart as purely unselfish in its
pursuit as belongs to mortal; but I told her not my
love. I feared to do it, as I saw nothing in her deportment
which, to my watchful eyes, held forth any
encouragement to my hopes. Perhaps it was, that,
with all the doubts and timidity of a true affection,
estimating its own claims at the humblest rate, as
sincere affection is most always apt to do, I shrunk
from pressing upon her those regards which I felt,
and occasioned a kindred doubt in her mind of my
real purposes. I had reason to think afterwards that
I deceived myself—that she really loved me—that—
but this is needless. Enough, that at this moment I
received a visit from Maitland. He came to borrow
money, and finding me not at home, and his wants
being pressing, he followed me to the residence of
Col. Taylor. There he saw Ellen; and, to shorten
a story already quite too long, there he won her.
But not at this first visit. He came back with me to
my residence, which was then at Woodville, and
procured the money which he required. But while

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with me, he artfully procured from me all necessary
information with regard to the Taylor family—its
character, connexions and resources. I did not
reveal to him my feeling for Ellen, but he must have
seen it. A short time after this, while on a visit to
Natchez, I was seized with the yellow fever, which
nearly brought me to the grave. For days I remained
without consciousness of what was going on
around me; for weeks without strength to leave
my chamber. In this time Maitland prosecuted
opportunities which I had seemed to neglect. He
pressed his pretensions upon Ellen, and in a moment
of wilfulness of heart, such as seizes upon the
best of us at times, she accepted him. I had reason
to know afterwards that she had not been insensible
to my attentions, and that she was taught to believe
that I had trifled with her. William Maitland knew
of my illness all the while, but studiously withheld
the utterance of what he knew. The first knowledge
I had of my loss was the notice of their marriage in
one of the Orleans papers, to which city he removed
her a short time after the event. Since then I have
but once seen her, and then—”

Carter paused in his narrative as if struggling with
the climax of those emotions with which he had evidently
striven earnestly, for some time before. He
rose from his chair and paced the room a while, the
eyes of Vernon in the meantime being fixed upon
the fireplace.

“I had thought myself too old and too strong for
these weaknesses, Harry, but the affections which
grow up in solitude seldom become obtuse. Were
I a citizen, now, I could deliver you this narrative
with a smile; but, as I am, I almost regret that I
have begun it.”

“Do not, then, pursue it, sir, I beg you,—at least
not on my account,” said Vernon.

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“Nay, nay, Harry, it is begun, and the beginning
is half the battle always. I must now finish it, or
never. I trust, having opened my bosom to you, to
be better able to preserve silence on this subject for
ever after. The affair staggered me in regard to
Maitland's sincerity and faith. I was puzzled to determine
upon his conduct; and my chief suspicions
arose, not so much from his having married, as from
the studious secrecy which he had observed towards
me on the subject. I got no letter from him; I
heard of no inquiry or invitation—nothing, indeed,
of him or of his business, until he had removed her
to Orleans. He had need of me again. He became
the candidate for an office of great trust, and applied
to me to be his surety. It was then that I saw Ellen
Taylor for the first, and, I may almost say, the last
time, as the wife of another. She is in her grave
now; but it will not disparage her memory, with
you, my son, when I tell you, that it was from her
but half conscious lips, that I was taught to believe
that I might have been the happy possessor of her
hand, as, to the last, I was the possessor of her heart.
Do not attach blame to the pure spirit of her from
whom this confession came. It was while her mind
wandered in the delirium from which she never recovered,
that her sweet lips told me this blessed truth.
I kissed them, Harry, in a fond requital, when the
angel had left the tenement in which it had been so
troubled! I kissed them, Harry, when, colder than
the marble which was so soon to cover her, I well
knew that there was no danger that his lips would
remove the sad and sacred seal which mine had set
upon them!”

The struggling tear of Harry Vernon soon followed
that of his patron. His silence was the best
show of sympathy that his good sense suffered him
to make. The other after a brief pause proceeded.

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